The benevolent offer was eagerly accepted by the pawnbroker, whose only anxiety now was to get the baby out of his house. Before the evening a poor woman was found who consented to take charge of the helpless bundle of humanity. Having come into the neighborhood by a mysterious chance, the child was called Chance, to which, when or how could not afterwards be recalled, the Christian name of Timothy was prefixed. Endeavors were made to solve the mystery of his birth, but, in the absence of the slightest clew, nothing was discovered. For four years Mr. Loveday and the pawnbroker paid the expenses of the child's bringing up between them; then, somehow or other, Timothy Chance began to take care of himself, nursing babies bigger than himself for mothers whose quivers were too full, and getting a bit of straw to sleep on and a crust of bread to keep life in him. He was full of health and strength, and willingness, and even in those early days he developed a surprising independence which served him in good stead. As he grew in years the task of looking after himself and obtaining shelter and food became less difficult; he throve where others would have starved; if he could not get crumb he put up with crust; if he could not get straw to lie upon he put up with boards, if not boards the earth, if not a roof the sky. From time to time he disappeared from the neighborhood, went hopping in the season, attaching himself to some family bent on the same errand, took service with a tinker and went about the country, and did anything and everything to keep body and soul together. He succeeded in a good and worthy way, and the partnership of his boyish frame with a cheerful, willing spirit, was a passport wherever he went, and would have carried him all over the world. He did well for others, and better for himself, as will be seen, although he was penniless nine days out of ten. This did not trouble him; he was healthy, strong, and happy, and had ideas--in the germ at present, and not by himself understood; but there they were, working in his fertile, healthy brain, to ripen and bear fruit one day perhaps. Such, imperfectly limned, was Timothy Chance as he stood before Mr. Loveday the bookseller.